#jaw surgery must haves

[comradejoanmir]

.

[louhearted]

not so ironically considering deferring my master to next year. like i really really do not want to and deep down i know i’ll regret it but also i cannot for the life of me concentrate on anything and my one prof keeps mentioning the option to defer at the end of every email and like. stop dangling it in front of my face. i can DO THIS. i can. I CAN.

[bowsers-sweaty-asshole]

.

[genderqueerdykes]

prioritizing mentalities like "people who look like cishet men aren't allowed in queer spaces" means putting your mild discomfort before the safety of other queer people and as a result cutting them off from community and resources they desperately need. saying "never transition/boymoding/butch/masc trans women look too much like cishet men and scare the women and enbies" prioritizes your comfort and need to pathologically avoid men and mascs over transfeminine people being addressed correctly and given access to resources. this is transmisogyny. this also conflates nonbinaryhood with womanhood which is also transphobic. saying that "women and enbies" need to be "protected" from "cishet men" is taking a page right out of rad fem ideology and actively endangers transfemmes, trans women, intersex people, non binary people, and other queer people

this is putting your squicks before the genuine needs of someone else. this is you refusing to understand non binary identities. you are mildly uncomfortable- they are fighting for their lives to find safety and community. you are mildly inconvenienced, they are being cut off from things that can save their lives. these are 2 entirely different situations to be in. you're "uncomfy" around tall people with deep voices, broad chests and shoulders, narrow hips, facial and body hair, they're fighting to stay off the streets, find access to HRT and gender affirming surgery, meet other trans people to know they're not alone, and find safety among people who get them.

look beyond the scope of your lived experience. sometimes in life you will be uncomfortable. you must challenge and face that discomfort in order to grow. you being mildly uncomfortable around someone with a deep voice and a square jaw identifying as a lesbian woman is a non-issue, especially when that woman needs to be around other queer women. we all face discomfort throughout our lives. we have all had bad experiences with certain "types" of people. but we must grow and move past our own discomfort, especially when it starts taking away rights from people who have not and will continue to not harm you in any way shape or form by sharing a space with you.

[emilys-bangs]

born knowing you | e.p

Tags: shy!reader, established relationship (married cause who wouldn’t wanna marry her), temporary amnesia, hospitals, reader has an appendectomy but no details are mentioned, absolute boatload of fluff, disgusting amount of petnames used, no use of yn

Summary: After your surgery, the effects of the anesthesia linger: you can’t remember your wife—or being married to her. Luckily for the both of you, she’s persistent.

Word count: 1.4k

The moment you peel your threaded lashes apart, fluorescent light assaults your eyes. Immediately they shutter closed. You take a few seconds to adjust to the blissful dark before opening them again, a small, displeased sound getting stuck in your throat. 

It catches the attention of a woman sitting on a chair next to your bed. She looks up from a book in her lap, a smile crossing her face as she closes it and slips it onto the table next to her. Your brain is fuzzy, but with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the uncomfortable scratch of the gown you’re wearing, it’s not hard to deduce that you’re in a hospital.

“Hi gorgeous,” she says softly. Reaching out, she takes your hand. “How are you feeling?”

You frown confusedly. Looking between her and your joint hands, your perplexion mounts; you know her, you must. Your skin doesn’t crawl at her touch. But you try to come up with a name, a memory, and your brain comes up with nothing.

The woman squeezes your hand and leans out of her chair, across the handle of your bed—she’s suddenly so close you could count the freckles on her cheeks. Her eyes spike your sluggish pulse into something frantic.

God, she’s so familiar. You know that stare. Your skin warms at its intensity, a low buzz in your bones that could no doubt be accredited to the deep, unfathomable brown of her iris. 

Nobody has eyes like that.

The woman’s brows pinch at your silence. A wrinkle forms between her manicured brows; she chews on her bottom lip, squeezes your hand again—nervous this time.

“Honey?”

“I…I know you,” you mumble uncertainly. It sounds like a question. 

The wrinkle clears. An exhale parts the woman’s heart-shaped lips, her relief wafting over your chin.

“You do. I’m Em, baby. Emily. Don’t you remember?” She asks gently, cradling your cheek with her free hand. You think you could’ve answered if not for the devastating tilt of her spidery lashes. “The anesthesia did a number on you, huh? The doctor said it might happen.” Her thumb traces the length of your jaw.

She’s so close. You swallow and discover that your throat is dry. Emily, she said. Strange how it warms you up on the inside. Flitting your eyes away, you relieve yourself of her crushing gaze.

“Can I have water?” You rasp.

Emily procures a bottle. Cold creeps into your skin as she adjusts your bed, helping you sit up, and uncaps the water. Your arms are leaden by your sides. Heat surges in your cheeks as you let her help you drink, a distinct weight on your face you think might be from her eyes. You can hardly feel the cool spill of the water down your throat.

Clumsily, you push the bottle away when you’re done. Water spills down your chin; it travels down the column of your neck, soaks your hospital gown. Embarrassment flares hot, especially when Emily’s hand is there on your chin, drying the water with her fingers. You stare at her, this time unable to look away even when her eyes meet yours.

She smiles, dimples popping in her cheeks. “Everything alright in there? They didn’t mess you up too bad, did they?” Her voice is lightly teasing. It’s lovely, silky smooth and drenched with the warmth of adoration. That can’t all be for you, can it? “I should’ve flashed my badge, let them know it was precious cargo they’d be dealing with.” She muses, brows pinched as if she were serious.

God, who is this woman?

You swallow your thrumming heart. “What happened?”

“You had an appendectomy.” Emily says. “Laparoscopic. It took about an hour—we should be out of here once they check your vitals.” 

Out of here, to where? She won’t be taking you to her home, will she? You saw a wedding ring on her finger when she tucked her hair—wavy, dark as an oil spill—behind her ear. The glint of metal makes your stomach tighten strangely.

“Hey, you never answered,” Emily’s leaning against the handle of your bed, “how are you feeling?” A smooth, smoky scent floods your lungs.

“Alright.” Breathless. Her ring is dazzling in the dull light. “Itchy. But nothing hurts. You’re married.” You say, vaguely aware of the way your voice slurs.

Emily smiles softly. 

“We are.”

What?

You shake your head haltingly. “I’m not—I’m not married.”

“You are, sweetheart.” Again, she cups your face. “To me. What, am I that easily forgettable?” She whispers. The smile doesn’t play on her lips now; it shimmers in her eyes. “You’re breaking my heart, love.” Her voice is so achingly tender, soft as the cushioned heel of her palm.

Your heart is going to beat out of your chest. 

Breathless, you wet your lips with a quick dart of your tongue. “You…you wanted to marry me?”

Emily looks almost offended.

“Of course I did.”

You still can’t fathom it. “Why?” You mumble. “Why me?”

“Who else if not you?” She thumbs along your jaw.

You’re dizzy. And almost entirely sure she can feel your frantic pulse under the lazy drag of her finger. At your disbelief, Emily hums.

“Here,” her hand is reaching for your left, “see? I put that there, two October’s ago.” She kisses your wedding band—how hadn’t you felt it?—her lips velvet smooth against your skin. “You were so stunning I nearly forgot my vows.” The warm vibrations of her voice sink into your hand, reverberate through your bones.

It’s a good thing you’re in a hospital; you think she might be doing you irreparable damage. Lungs tight, you try to think past the effortless way she threads her fingers through yours.

“Do you always flirt like that?”

Emily’s smile melts your brain. “When you let me.”  She shifts a little closer—impossibly—and her eyes sweep downward, a lick of heat burning your lips. Then they’re back up to meet yours, wide open and a little desperate. “Can I kiss you, baby? God, you wouldn’t believe how much I missed you in there.”

Your heart palpitates.

“We’ve done it before?” You manage, more than a little choked at the thought.

“A million times.” Emily promises.

It’s your turn to look at her mouth. Soft pink, heart shaped, and entirely too inviting. When she does something with a flash of her teeth, you’re a goner.

“Okay.”

She lights up. “Yeah? Sure?”

“Please.”

The breath you exhale when she cups your cheek is downright embarrassing. But it almost doesn’t matter; this close, you can see that her pupils are wide, blown out. The lack of iris doesn’t make her gaze any less intense. If you hadn’t been sitting, legs firmly on the mattress, you’d have slid to the floor with weakened knees.

Emily’s lips are exactly as soft as they look. She tastes like coffee, sweetened by something you inexplicably identify as Splenda, and when her fingers sift through your hair something tugs in your chest. It’s instantly proven—no, this isn’t your first kiss. Maybe it has been a million times, or maybe somewhat less, but it’s not the first. Though it’s chaste and quick, your mouth knows what to do. Even when Emily leans back, eyes glittering, your mouth takes over without your permission.

“Love you,” you blurt.

Emily grins so wide you’re breathless. “I love you too. What, did I kiss some memories into that pretty brain of yours?” She thumbs at the edge of your tingling lip.

“You could try to. If you wanna.” What are you even saying anymore? She’s robbed you of thought, of breath. You’re happy to be completely at her mercy.

“Honey, there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing.” Emily says solemnly. She kisses the corner of your mouth, the mellow lilt of her voice dissolving right in your tongue. “In fact, it’s my duty as your wife, I’m pretty sure.”

“My wife,” you say dumbly.

“Oh, you like that.” Her grin is incandescent. “God, I’d marry you all over again if I could.”

“I’d just like to remember the first time,” you say quietly.

“You will.” Another kiss, to the other corner of your mouth. Feather light and quicker than you’d like. Your mouth curves into a sulk—a pout.

“Soon?”

“Before you even know it.” Emily—your wife (the reality is starting to set in)—promises. And her promise holds up; it’s when she’s taken you home, and you’re in a baggy pair of sweatpants, flushing and fidgeting as it comes back to you. Believe me now? she teases into your ear, her laugh soft when you reach out to swat at her.

You can’t believe you ever doubted.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi@temilyrights@professorsapphic

[houseofwolvess]

i really need braces but it's so fucking hard to imagine myself ever being able to afford them

[musicallisto]

hello beloved I hope your shoulder surgery goes well!!! as a little distraction can I please ask for a franco colapinto x driver!reader, enemies to lovers? love u and thinking of u always xoxo

· · · · ♡ BOOM, CRASH! (fc43)

… starring franco colapinto x f!driver!reader ... 2.4k words ... in which you get into a nasty crash, and the first person to visit you in the hospital is the last guy you'd ever imagined being worried about you. ... warnings for crash, hospital, injuries, blood, nothing too graphic i think! reader is a bit of a bully tbhh but it is a cutthroat sport 😌 ... if you haven't noticed already, these are all very self-indulgent for me, and this is no exception.

Ironically, the last words you remember telling Franco Colapinto before you barrel into the wall at turn 12 were “Don't crash it.”

“What?”

“Don't crash it,” you repeat pointedly. “Logan wasn't exactly irreproachable in that regard. Budget cap's drawing closer.”

Your smile is wide but dulcet, not quite reaching your eyes, and your teeth are sharp and gritted. To any inopportune cameras that would be pointed at you right now, you only look like a well-meaning driver giving your rookie teammate advice before his second-ever F1 race... but neither you nor Franco miss the electricity crackling in the hallway outside the driver rooms.

“What makes you think I'm gonna crash it?" the Argentinian bites back, all fluttering eyelashes and wolfish smile. Unfazed, as always. Grinds your gears like little else can. "If anything, you be careful to not crash into me. Since I'm starting ahead on the grid and all.”

“Right, I forget it's your first time in Baku. You'll see what I mean soon enough, anyway.”

Your steps lead you down the hallway and to the garages mechanically, a path you've taken dozens of times, wearing different colored suits, following behind different teammates in stride. And this year's Williams blue would've suited you perfectly... if it didn't come attached with the pretentious goofball traipsing behind you.

You don't even bother looking back when you speak again. You raise your chin and brace yourself for the artificial lights of the pitlane.

“Good luck, or whatever.”

“It wouldn't kill you to be nice, you know?”

“Wouldn't kill you to know your place.”

The door handle creaks beneath your gloved hand, drowning out whatever it is Franco mutters in Spanish on the other end of the hall—”re amargada la piba esta” he mumbles to no one but himself—, and at last you are safe, at peace in the nervous bustle of a garage entirely devoted to you.

Sure, getting a new teammate midseason is a tough predicament to find oneself in: a whole new dynamic to establish, a whole routine to fall into. And newbies always get the chance to make good first impressions; not the girl who’s been sitting in the car for two years. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t mind it—Carlos Sainz will be snatching your first driver privileges next year anyway—but it would be easier to comply if the aforementioned new teammate wasn’t an annoying pain in the ass, flirting and laughing his way through the paddock with that detached nonchalance that believes everyone must be wrapped around his finger, and then having the gall to outqualify you on one of your favorite circuits. On his first-ever time there!

So yes, maybe it’s your ego taking up too much space in the tight cockpit of your Williams, obscuring your vision. Maybe it’s the disastrous grip you’ve reported twice now on the radio—Okay, Y/N, we heard that and we’ll get back to you.

Whatever it is, somewhere around lap 20, your car oversteers into a wide spin right as you enter the rapid turn. The steering wheel snaps out of your hands, and it’s like a giant strangles you with all its might for a blink of an eye, barely even a second.

You only know you’ve hit the wall—hard—from the ringing in your ears and soreness of your jaw. What used to be your front right tire lies in front of your smashed wing, rubber and carbon scattered pitifully. Your finger shakes when you lift it and press the radio button.

“I’m OK… I think.”

A flash of red catches the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if it’s from the flag being waved outside of track limits, a Haas zooming past in the corner, or… it’s hot, and viscous on your eyebrow, dripping into your eyes. You bring your hand to your forehead, where your helmet is crushed inward, just above your left eye. Smashed into your forehead.

Then everything kind of blurs together. You vaguely feel someone helping you out of the wreckage, their distant yapping about concussion symptoms not helping your light-headedness at all. You think you slip out of consciousness for the first time then, on the track still, because your next memory is of an ambulance—or what you assume to be an ambulance, you’ve never ridden in one before, and you even think to yourself this new procedure is pretty excessive from the FIA, the medical car was quite sufficient—and then it’s back to nothingness until you wake up for good on a stretcher, hooked to some sort of medical tube—perfusion?—as you’re being ushered into a quiet hospital room.

The nurse who visits you is sweet, filling in the blanks in slow, accented English. The gash to your forehead is pretty deep, but nothing the surgeon doesn’t see at least once a week! (At that, you lift a groggy hand above your brow bone, where you feel a thick bandage.) A few stitches later and you’re good as new, though the blood loss and concussion combined left you pretty weak, and justify keeping you in observation for the night. It’s just protocol, you’re probably used to hospital visits in that line of work of yours, she jokes—and you know you’ve recovered almost all your mental acuity because you get offended at that. No, you don’t usually crash. In fact, you haven’t all season…

And it had to be today of all days, in Baku… after you told Franco to not crash it.

When the nurse leaves the room with the promise she’ll be back in an hour, you let out a long, dreary sigh. Fernando Alonso’s grainy voice over the radio comes to mind. ¡Karma!

Night falls quickly outside your window with nothing to kill time but your phone. After catching up on the race results—somehow you’re too exhausted to feel irritated at Colapinto’s points finish—and posting a reassuring Instagram story for your followers, you’re left to the mercy of your ruminating thoughts. Sleep is impossible to catch; the adrenaline of the race hasn’t worn off yet, and you’ve been knocked out so long now you’re desperate to leave this stretcher.

You’ve just about decided to call the nurse for an early discharge when a shadow appears behind the door’s little windowpane, hesitates for a second, and then knocks. Medical personnel wouldn’t bother; it’s probably your family, or maybe even Vowles, or…

“Hey, how… che, estás hecha mierda.”

You tense immediately when you catch the brown waves of hair and unmistakable accent as Franco walks into your hospital room. He looks genuinely stumped, like he hadn’t expected to see you in such bad condition, so much so he forgets to shut the door behind him.

For some reason, the sight endears you. Makes you want to take him in your arms, feel his realness in this hallucinatory evening. What a ridiculous thought!

“Stop it with the Spanish,” you protest, devoid of your usual fire however. “Maybe it works on your fangirls, but not on me.”

“I said you look like shit.”

“Oh.” You look him straight in the eye, the silliness of the situation dawning on you, and against all odds you start to laugh. A real laugh, more than a chuckle, one that sends phantom pains stabbing through your sore abdomen. “Well if that’s all you’re gonna say, you can stick to Spanish! I don’t want to hear it.”

What did the nurse say about the anesthesia’s side effects? Do they include feeling a little glad and relieved to see your detested teammate? To know he’s the first person to check up on you?

Whatever the reason, you’re laughing, absurdly, and so is Franco, chuckling to himself as he closes the door and drags a chair closer to your bed. His eyes crinkle like a little kid’s, and that’s when you notice his disheveled appearance. Cheeks a little flushed, hair tousled like he’s just run a marathon, he’s wearing a crumpled-up Williams shirt, no doubt the first thing he could get his hands on after the race. It hits you then that he’s probably just off media duties, and the fact he’s alone, with no team delegation in tow, indicates he left early. Just to get to you. To make sure you were alright.

You are a competitor, but you aren’t a monster. The idea Franco couldn’t be bothered to wait for James, or anyone else, tugs at your heartstrings.

“Thank God you told me not to crash it, huh?” he teases between chuckles.

“Shut up.”

“Careful, Y/N, the budget cap is coming for you,” he wiggles his fingers over your face like a looming ghost.

You turn your head away to face the wall, huffing in exasperation, but a throbbing pain traverses your skull, and you wince. Franco’s eyes darken, smile fading into a grave expression.

You rarely see him like this outside of the helmet. It’s novel, but it’s welcome. Almost attractive, in a way.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I… My helmet smashed into my forehead. I was bleeding pretty bad, apparently, they had to stitch me up. I got concussed too. Aren’t helmets supposed to absorb these hits?”

“Concussed?” he repeats, and holds out his hand in a peace sign. “How many fingers?”

You stick out your tongue at the Argentinian, flipping him the bird.

“And now?”

“Ah, come on, don’t be so mean,” Franco chuckles, scooting a little closer to your stretcher with his chair. Unfazed, as always. But this time it doesn’t peeve you; you’re rather thankful for his cheeky banter, actually. For a moment, in the blur of cold white lights and carbon fiber debris, you’d started to fear you could lose it for good. “We were just starting to become friends!”

“That’s because I’m concussed. I don’t want to be friends with you, we’re rivals.”

“Well the whole rivals thing isn’t working very well for you lately. Maybe you’re better off being friends with me.”

You roll your eyes, but the gnawing anxiety that roars in your stomach whenever someone pits you against the rookie stays quiet for once. Perhaps you’re still under the influence of the tranquilizers… or perhaps those brown eyes holding you in their light, tender in a way you’ve never seen them before, make it harder to get mad at him.

“I’ll consider it.”

And you don’t mean it just yet, but you don’t don’t mean it. What do you even hate Franco Colapinto for? Stealing the spotlight from you just two weeks into his career? Flirting with every living being on the paddock except you? Or forcing you to up your game and face your fears?

A stabbing pain crushes your skull all of a sudden, and you shut your eyes, teeth gritted and muscles taut, to try and breathe it out… to no avail. When you open your eyes, Franco is staring at you, brows furrowed in that same serious, concerned expression that sends a wholly different type of pins and needles through your body.

“Everything alright?”

“No… The painkillers. I need another ketoprofen,” you whine, squinting your eyes against the harsh hospital lightning.

“Should I call the nurse?”

“No, they’re on the table over there,” you gesture blindly. “There’s a glass too.”

Only sounds inform you of what’s going on once you close your eyes, faint lights and colors barely piercing through your eyelids. The rustling of fabric, then someone fumbling with cardboard and pills, your sink opening, and then cautious footsteps stopping at the edge of your bed.

“Here.”

You take the pill between weak fingers and fight with all your might to sit up straight in the bed without moving your head… but the soreness and exhaustion from the race and surgery overpower you. So much for neck strength.

“I can’t,” you huff out in defeat. “I can’t tilt my head.”

“It’s okay. Take the pill,” Franco orders softly, and you put the drug on your tongue, too tired to raise the outrage of him bossing you around.

Slowly, carefully, Franco brings the rim of the glass to your lips, and you drink all that you can, training your attention on the medication going down your throat—and not on your teammate’s intense gaze fixed on your mouth, nor the proximity of your bodies or his slightly ragged breath.

“Thank you,” you exhale when you’re done.

Luckily for him, he has his back turned to you when you speak, setting the empty glass down on the table, so you don’t notice his bashful smile. He’s never heard you so docile, affable, even, and though he likes it when you bite back… it feels great, too, to know there is a way to pierce that armor of yours.

“Franco,” you call out to him, neither of you missing how this is one of the first times you’ve called him by his first name. “Do you mind… staying? Just until James or someone else gets here. It gets so boring.”

He spins on his heels in disbelief, scrutinizing you in search of mockery, or irony, or your usual callousness… but all he reads is earnest and the slightest hint of embarrassment, all he sees is your outstretched hand. So he brushes it with his, not daring to hold it purposefully just yet. Like he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome into your bubble.

“Yeah, sure. But only so you won’t get bored.”

“Of course,” you smile faintly as he sits back down on his chair. Your eyes meet in newfound amusement, maybe even temporary fondness. “Don’t go around thinking I like you.”

“Me? I would never. We’re rivals.”

You give a small appreciative nod, and after some instants of silence, clear your throat and ask him to recount the end of the race. Just as you expected, his storytelling is dramatic and entertaining, interspersed with words he doesn’t remember how to say in English and the unmissable zest of grid gossip Franco always brings to his tales. You chuckle, gasp, and pester even, as much as you can with your aching skull and limbs… and barely notice the minutes ticking by, or how you wish the rest of your team would never show up, your distaste for Franco slaking.

Maybe you can be persuaded into liking his presence, after all. So long as he stays out of the car, though… and remains your personal nurse.

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[rabotimagines]

"Pet names" pt2 GN! BOT Reader + Prowl, Ratchet, Blaster, Bumblebee, Skyfire

Summary: Reader has become partial to using human pet names for everyone.

Warnings: none.

Genre/Theme: Platonic/with hints of crush

G1 characters included: Prowl, Ratchet, Blaster, Bumblebee, Skyfire.

Notes: Cybertronian Reader, Reader is around Ironhides age so older in mind

Pronouns: You, your, yours, them, they

Prowl is trying to get a verbal review of your report while finishing up his own. You've all been busy the past week, so you're walking through the ark hall while conversing. And you finish, so you move to hand him the physical report on the datapad. "Here you go, Pudding."

Prowl full-on stops in place when he hears what you say, fully expecting his audials to be glitching. "What did you just say?"

"Here you go, Pudding." You hold the datapad out, still completely unperturbed by what you'd just done and even more so when having to repeat it. Prowl processor lags- Because you're calling him- human pet names of all things without reason. But he forces his system to straighten out and consider your personality. This stops it from getting worse since this may just be you behaving like... you.

"You know my designation." Prowl settles on stating the fact.

"I do." You stated back, still wordlessly holding the datapad for him to take. Annoyance slowly seeps into Prowls frame at the exchange, and he takes the datapad from you.

Prowl gives you a long calculating look. "Do not do it again." He settled on.

You just shrugged, a small smirk curling on your derma. "Okay later then, Pumpkin." You turn and leave before Prowl comprehends this pet name, which makes his helm snap to your retreating form.

Prowl does not enjoy it. The incessant pet names you'd elected to now refer every autobot with. His wings twitch in annoyance whenever you call him "Pumpkin" or "Pudding" or allspark forbid "Peaches." Optimus fully pauldron shaking laughed the first time you'd called him that one. You humiliating Prowl was not how he wanted Optimus to get his R&R. However, he will tolerate it slightly more when Optimus is in the room. If not to watch you make a fool of Optimus, instead of him. Prowl had attempted to scold you the first time he'd seen you call Optimus "Sweetspark." their leaders' finials had pulled back when you'd done so- Optics brightened. But Optimus informed Prowl that he actually does enjoy the pet names. Prowl doesn't understand even after Oprimus's explanation of the supposed "benefits" of your behavior.

But he does look and watch after that and must conceded that there was- some, however mild, merit to the autobots general mood when you'd use your pet names. It was merely a bother in Prowls system, but he supposed he could make the sacrifice for the morale of the autobots.

Prowl wouldn't like it, however.

-

Ratchets resetting your leg juncture back into place after a battle. You hadn't bothered to come to him till after he got through everyone else. You'd apparently "forgotten" about it in the hustle of making sure everyone else got seen first. Slag is what it was, and Ratchet made sure you knew exactly what he thought. It realigns and clicks into place with you digging a servo against his pauldron with a hissing vent. You relaxed your jaw and nod in gratitude. "Ha- Thanks, love."

Ratchet almost coughs in shock, his plating flaring a touch. But after years of hearing everything from patients in pain or in surgery high on something, he just clicks his glossia. "Next time, don't forget to mention your own injuries."

Ratchet had assumed it was just a slip of the glossia at the time due to the pain and let it slide. Then the next time you're reporting from Optimus to him and call him "Handsome." And he's asking you to repeat that, which you shamelessly do with a smirk. Ratchet scoffed and told you he wasn't going to go any easier on you the next time you forget to come in. No matter how much you try flattering him. Then he sees you with the other autobots and learns you've simply picked this up as a habit.

Ratchet has to resist the urge to roll his optics every time you do it with him. He's gone from being prickly in response with you to half seriously threatening to short your mouth circuit if you didn't stop. But you only continued to do just that. Whenever you called him "Love," his damn spark hummed a touch louder. You've realized that too and tend to only use that more often or not. Much to his- exasperation. Ratchet does enjoy the casual affection to a degree. Reminds him of his younger days. The easier ones. So he doesn't ever throw a wrench at you for the pet names themselves.

Ratchet does definitely enjoy watching the others more than being on the receiving end. Watching Optimus's finials twitch, then pull forward slightly and his plating fluffing in response. Or Ironhide looking like he was going to blow a minor fuse from how bright his own optics were while he unsuccessfully tried to get you to stop. Even Prowls door wings twitching in obvious disdain makes Ratchet crack a smirk at least. So Ratchet let's it be for the most part. They could use some "softer" interactions around the base.

...

He's still telling you to stop whenever you do it to him, though.

-

Blasters cool with it. He's been in it with the humans at parties or at clubs (the ones he could fit in anyway.) And he's seen and even been on the receiving end of flirting pet names on the occasion. You calling him "Babe" didn't trigger much but an amused smirk. Blaster will return a few casual pet names himself a "Babe" here and there. But what is not cool is Jazz and you being as cringe inducing as possible on his audials. Blaster is sooooo sick of being subjected to you and Jazz's "flirting." It ain't flirting it's a failing clown show!

You'll get more of a fond smile when Blaster sees you pet naming his cassettes. They all fumbled a touch when you'd called them something with sweetness in your tone. Steeljaw, like always, is aloof and focused when you're on the clock. But when you're off? Just chilling at the ark? Steeljaw is a little slagger. Rewind and Eject at least have the decency to only do it when it's natural. Steeljaw will seek you out with his olfactory when you're both off duty to get called sweet names by you.

"I'm so glad you're still here, Foxy." You waved at Jazz, who was standing next to Blaster.

"And I'm so glad to see you too, Snookums." Jazz's tone is so absurd it actually makes Blaster feel physically tired.

"And I'm gonna purge." Blaster bluntly remarks, causing you both to turn to him, then share a look with each other. Jazz smiles in a way Blaster recognizes and is immediately cautious. Blaster jolts when you're suddenly leaning into his space. Your digits are now just barely tracing his boombox buttons.

You smile like a felinoid, and Blasters tries to back up, but Jazz is suddenly pressing up behind him, preventing his escape. Jazz's arms even wrapped around Blasters middle. You speaking makes his gaze snap back to you. "Come on, Baby, don't you wanna have some fun?" You worried your optical ridge, and Blasters glossia is feeling really thick in his mouth now.

Then, his dock compartment snaps open of its own accord, and Steeljaw ejects and forms right into your arms. You just chuckle and heft his cassette into a more comfortable position. "Hey baby! I know you won't say no to a little TLC, Blaster, however..."

Blaster, now broken out of that little trance, shook to break out of Jazz's hold. Jazz, however, did not release him - "Sorry Blaster! You're not approved for release until you enjoy at least five compliments from both of us!" Like pit Blaster was! He wasn't sticking around to hear the kind of slag you both called flirting! Blaster looked at Steeljaw for help only to slack at the smile on his cassettes muzzle. The little traitor!

-

Bumblebee isn't ambushed by it like the others- He's already heard through the autobot gossip about your new little routine. So he's mostly prepared and more wondering when/what you'd call him. You haven't used a pet name with him yet, so he's waiting on his pedes for it to happen. He half ends up wondering if you'll exclude him for some reason when you finally do it after a minor battle with the cons.

You're doing head count and injury report for Ratchet and get to him. Bumblebee almost trips, but you catch his arm and steady him. "Careful Honey, don't injure yourself after the battle."

Bumblebees optics burn only a touch brighter, but he's mostly amused. "Honey? Because of my designation translation?"

You just smirked, your own amusement growing in your em field. Bumblebee could feel it with how close you were right now. You leaned a touch further into his space. "What? Can't be because you're so sweet?" The heady wave of playful affection in your field mixed with that makes Bumblebees optics brighten in embarrassment proper. You just chuckled and squeezed his arm before moving to continue to make your post battle rounds. While Bumblebee wordlessly watched you go.

Bumblebee enjoys the attention even if it's admittedly embarrassing. Bumblebee thinks he might almost enjoy seeing the other autobots' reactions more than getting your attention himself. Almost anyway. While yeah it's definitely funny watching Ironhide especially try and get you to stop. Bumblebee enjoys each time you share a pet name with him just a little bit more. Bumblebee does admittedly feel a bit giddy whenever it happens. It makes him stand up a bit taller and makes him smile a touch whenever he hears it. A small rush of confidence courses through him every time.

The first time you called Bumblebee, "Lovebug." Though? Bumblebee walked right into one of the ark walls.

-

"Hey, teddy bear!" Teddy bear-? The small plush toys human children carry around? Skyfire stops when you call it out in the ark hallway, because he had no clue who you'd be directing the name towards... only to watch you wander right up to him. Skyfires optics widen a touch when you stop in front of him and look at him expectantly.

"Am I...?" Skyfire wondered aloud.

You only smirked and simply held out a datapad for him to take "Yeah you, teddy bear, need you to review this for me so I can approve it for Perceptor or not."

"I- Alright." Skyfire took the datapad unsure if he should ask about the name or not.

"Thank you, Darling." Now that one makes Skyfires optics brighten a touch. But you just salute him with two digits and go on your way again.

Skyfire quickly learns this was something of a habit you had picked up when he overhears the twins complaining about their pet names from you. Skyfire finds himself enjoying the affectionate names even if they do fluster him a touch. The affections were kind and freely given out by you. It was refreshing for Skyfire, especially after having joined this vorns long war, to hear them roll off your glossia. To see the crinkle in your optics. And to feel the light affection in your em field if he happened to be close enough to you when you did so. It was- normal. A touch embarrassing yes, but almost painfully normal.

You'd keep switching, but you mostly called him "Bear" or "Teddy bear," and on occasion "Darling". He'd asked about the Teddy bear nickname in particular since he understood darling as a pet name a touch more. And you just smirked and completely unabashed and said, "Humans say it's for someone big, dependable and lovable. So I think it fits pretty well." Skyfire ends up so embarrassed by the casual remark he can feel cobalt on his own faceplate. He ends up putting his servo over his own faceplate and looking anywhere but you. While you just laughed light at Skyfires own expense.

After that exchange, hearing you call him "Bear" or "Teddy bear" makes Skyfires optics brighten more than "Darling."

[hotchner-edu]

Intertwined | Aaron Hotchner

Synopsis: Following the bullet you took for Aaron, he must pick up the pieces of himself to face the awful realization of what comes next. — part 2 of THIS

Pairing: Father-figure!Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader (Platonic)

Warning: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, happy ending, descriptions of blood/feeding tubes, medical inaccuracies—

In spite of how dangerous being an agent in the field was, and how often Jack’s pediatric appointments occurred, Aaron never grew accustomed to the overwhelming stench of sterileness.

It coated every surface of every room, pervading his senses to remind him of the hollowing anxiety that swirled in his chest— the feeling of utter helplessness in the face of impending doom.

His eyes were rimmed red, stinging from exhaustion and unshed tears. He's slumped in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as his eyes stared unblinkingly into the vinyl floor.

Guilt was trapped in his heart, tugging and stabbing as he replayed the conversations he had with you the day prior. He knows he's been unfair with the team as of late because of the divorce proceedings with Haley, but unfair doesn't even begin to describe his treatment toward you.

You were young and careless. He hated how careless you were. It made you susceptible to slip ups, it made your heart too soft, and it made you take that damn bullet for him. And now you were being operated on by every competent staff member in the damn place, echoes of his desperate yells and furious shouts ringing through his head.

He'd lost all composure in front of the hospital staff— in front of his team. But he found it hard to care, every ounce of his energy circling around the memory of blood rapidly gushing from your neck.

Derek had started to chew him out at the scene, but stopped when he saw his horrified face, eyes glued to the paramedics who were urgently trying to resuscitate you.

His jaw shifts, clenching hard as the burning of tears stirs in his eyes once again.

He feels something cold press against the back of his neck, momentarily causing him to close his eyes.

"Pull yourself together." Dave's voice comes out calmly, trying to comfort Aaron to the best of his ability.

"She looked dead." He whispers out, voice quiet but etched with regret.

Dave shakes his head— he can see it in his peripheral, and the older man moves in front of him, squatting down to catch Aaron's eyes. "But she's not."

"How can she not be?" He mutters, shoulders sagging as his mind instantly shoots toward the worst case scenario, imagining himself having to fill out the case reports— having to fill out the papers explaining how you were killed on the field.

Dave's eyebrows raise slowly, speaking softly. "Do you want me to get Reid over here to read off some statistics?" He attempts to joke, glancing over at the rest of the team as they all sat in silence down the hallway.

Aaron doesn't react to the joke. "Why did she push me out of the way, Dave?" He asks, searching futilely for an explanation as he stares at his friend.

"The same reason you would have done the same for her if you were in her shoes." Dave states with a sad smile, patting his shoulder before handing him the cold water bottle.

By three in the morning, six hours since you've been in surgery, Aaron can see that most of the team has fallen asleep in their chairs. He's still sat in the same spot, back protesting the odd position he's put himself into as he busied himself with catastrophizing.

He only musters up the energy to sit up when the OR doors open, a visibly disheveled and exhausted surgeon walking toward them. He shoots up from his chair, joints cracking as he hurries toward the woman.

"For Y/N L/N?" She asks gently, gazing at him with an inscrutable expression.

Aaron nods quickly, mouth dry. "Yes. Is she okay?" He asks urgently.

"She pulled through. A few centimeters to the right and her carotid artery would have been severed. She likely won't wake up for a while, and we'll need to put her on a nasogastric tube for a few weeks since swallowing will be difficult." The woman explains.

Aaron's ears ring in relief when he realizes you're alive, but the more he hears, the more his stomach sinks. You were going to be enduring hell for the next few weeks.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." He whispers breathlessly and rubs a hand across his forehead.

"She'll be situated in the ICU. However, you'll have to wait until tomorrow morning to see her." She explains, flashing a glance over his shoulder to look at the rest of the team.

Aaron has to be dragged from the hospital that night, the team urging him to go back to the hotel to clean up and sleep so that he could visit early.

A part of him felt a bit of shame for falling apart, needing his team to reorient him as he seemed to be stuck in a perpetual daze.

He's unable to sleep for more than two hours, waking up in cold sweat with the unmistakable sound of a gunshot ringing in his ears as he sits up. He's sure his mind is tricking him, but he's almost certain he can hear the sound of the bullet piercing through your flesh in the back of his head.

Aaron is driving off to the hospital again before most of the team is even up, rehearsing what to say to you in his head as he is reminded of the cruel words he spat at you in the precinct.

Everything is moving in a blur for him, and by the time he's by your bedside, he isn't even able to remember when he even parked and walked into the hospital.

He pulls up a chair to sit by your side, eyes studying the bruising around your neck that’s peeking out from the bandages wrapped around your stitched-up wound.

The only thing assuring him of your breathing was the rhythmic beeping from the vital monitor that echoed like a backtrack for his jumbled thoughts.

He could swear you weren't breathing.

Maybe the machine was deceiving him? Did the nurses hook everything up right?

Maybe the job was finally getting to him and he was losing his mind.

"Can you hear me?" He croaks out, hand moving to cover your limp one. "Y/N?"

You can see colors warping, dancing and spinning before melting into a soothing darkness. It felt like you were floating, then wading through water, then being lifted into suspension again.

You felt nothing, but you also knew there was something you needed to remember.

Like a sponge soaking up water, bit by bit, you could feel your senses returning. For a split second you could feel every muscle in your body, every sound around you, and then nothing again.

"Y/N?"

The sound was deeper and worn down. Yes, that was your name.

Willing yourself to move, you felt a tingle run down your body.

Your eyes peel open and you're blinded by brightness, stabbing into your nerves and triggering blossoms of dull pain to erupt around your body.

When you're fully awake and cognizant, the memories come pouring in like an irrepressible tsunami. Your neck was pulsing in pain, and it takes you a moment to understand why.

"Y/N? Hey, hey. You're up..."

Your eyes shift over to your side and you're met with the sight of a disheveled Aaron Hotchner who looked like he just survived a combination of natural disasters.

A part of you feels pity for his uncharacteristically unkempt appearance, realizing he was probably at his wits end from worry. Then, you're slapped over the head with the memory of his acerbic words.

You're still deeply wounded from what he said to you, the image and esteem you held him in faltering with every replay of the memory.

"How are you feeling? Are you in a lot of pain? Wait, let me get a nurse." He rushes out breathlessly, turning around to leave the room.

You could tell he cared for you just by how he was conducting himself at that moment, but a nagging voice in your head was convincing you that he was just doing this to alleviate the guilt and pity he felt for himself.

You didn't need him attending to you just to clear his own conscience. It was a bit juvenile, but you wanted him to suffer a bit more.

True to your initial resolve, over the next following days, you stay cold toward Aaron. When the team first got word that you had woken up, you were nearly blinded by the sheer volume of colorful balloons Penelope brought.

And tears. So many tears were shed for you that you were sure they thought you were going to drop dead at any given second.

Everyone was taking turns acting like a mother hen toward you, and Derek even toned down his jibing in exchange for playing his various playlists for you. Spencer took to reading to you everyday, citing that he didn't want you to strain your eyes.

Emily and JJ talked about everything under the sun with you, making promises and plans for the next few months— shopping trips, movie dates, and anything else they could think of.

Well, you weren't able to really talk yet so they mainly chatted with each other while looking to you for nods or headshakes.

Penelope entertained you by pulling up private information on anybody you could name from your past (which was maybe a little illegal, but the things she did for you.)

Rossi indulged you by recounting some anecdotes from his time serving in the Marine Corps.

Aaron was probably your most constant visitor, dropping by everyday and staying for hours. You barely looked at him on most days, but when the team is called back to Quantico after a week, he becomes your only companion after he decides to take a few weeks off to take care of you.

You could see how disheartened he was getting everyday you ignored him, and you cursed yourself for feeling awful about it.

Two weeks have since passed since the rest of your team returned to DC, and Aaron was lucky to get a few words out of you everyday. You're currently watching a rerun of an old sitcom, trying to distract yourself from the awkward tension between you and Aaron.

"The doctor said you're not allowed to fly for a while, but you can be discharged by tomorrow since you're able to eat soft foods now." Aaron speaks softly, leaning forward in his seat before reclining again, a nervous habit of his.

Staying quiet, you gently prod the tube in your nose that was being removed in a few hours.

"Do you feel ready to leave?" He asks kindly, voice patient and soft.

You nod once and you can see him smiling a bit from your peripheral.

"That's great, sweetheart. I'll ask the doctor for all the medication you'll need." He says before hesitating. "I'll drive us back to DC. It'll take three days or so."

Your head snaps to look at him in shock, wincing a bit as the sudden movement causes a sharp pain to cut through your neck and shoulder.

Aaron can see your shock and indignance at the news. "I'm sorry." He whispers. You're not sure if he's apologizing for making you endure his constant presence for three days on the road, or if he's apologizing for everything that happened prior, but you just exhale through your nose and look away.

Being bedridden for most of your stay caused your muscles to be significantly weaker. Your legs were like jelly when you attempted to shuffle off your hospital bed, meaning Aaron had to help you around.

You were sinking further into confliction. A part of you wanted to wholeheartedly accept his help, the appreciation for his fatherly tendencies growing stronger. In the weeks that you've stonewalled him, he stayed by you and was always jumping to attend to your every need.

It was hard to forget the one night you woke up in blinding pain, huffing and hissing silently. Aaron had woken up in a matter of minutes, holding your hand and trying to soothe you back to sleep.

Maybe he did care.

On the first day of your drive back to DC, you're sitting comfortably in the passenger seat, the pain medication you're on making you relaxed and drowsy.

Aaron doesn't try to talk to you until you're two hours into the drive. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it right now, but I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You stay silent, having expected him to bring up the topic sooner or later.

"I was being completely unfair to you. I won't make excuses for what I said and did because I should have been able to keep myself in check, but I failed." He continues, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

"I want you to know, above all else, that I don't think you're incompetent or unskilled— you're a crucial part of the team, and I'm sorry if I made you doubt that." His voice wavers slightly, growing heavy with emotion as he seems to be unleashing everything he's been holding in since you woke up.

Your chest rumbles softly as you speak quietly, voice weak from the lack of speech in the past few weeks. "I always saw you as like a father to me."

The moment those words left your mouth, you almost wanted to take them back as the heartbreak in Aaron's face was clear as day. He swallows hard, clearly becoming even more emotional from your declaration.

It clearly meant a lot to Aaron since he knew how poor your relationship with your father was growing up. So to have your trust, something that's been battered by others and locked away inside of you, it reminded him of the hurt he carried because of his own father. It reminded him that he once was like you, vying for that affection and care when everyone's backs were turned.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, clenching his jaw as his eyes well up.

"Do you really care about me?" You ask, looking ahead at the road.

"Yes. I always have." He answers back, voice almost inaudible as he sounds a it choked up. "Because the same way you view me as a father, I always saw you as my kid. My reckless and soft-hearted kid that I needed to protect."

Tears fall from your eyes at his words. "I don't know if I can forgive you." You whisper candidly.

"I know." He nods and blinks away his tears. "But I just... I hope that the light inside of you never dies. This job... it takes everything from us. It almost took you from us. So we need you to keep that fire inside of you alive."

You feel very small at that moment, wanting nothing more than to shrink away and abandon everything. But despite that pervasive feeling, you can't help but continue clinging onto the hope and safety Aaron provides you with.

"Promise that you care about me?" You ask almost childishly, not wanting to be strong and alone any longer. The medications you were on certainly made you feel less inhibited, your honest feelings pouring out of you.

Aaron's words are almost hushed as he's quick to reassure you. "Yes. I promise, you can cry on me and depend on me. I promise that it's okay to be tired."

"I... I'm so tired." You whisper softly.

"You've endured so much all this time. I'm sorry I couldn't see it before." He says quietly.

Neither of you say anything after that, letting the conversation slip away as some semblance of closure blankets you both.

When the sun begins to set, the sky a canvas filled with an array of oranges and purples, you let yourself relax.

You can't pinpoint when you fell asleep, but when you're conscious again, Aaron is by your side, gently patting your shoulder. "There she is." He says softly when he sees you blinking awake. "It's almost midnight, I thought it'd be better for us to rest up for a few hours. I also need to check on your wound dressings."

Grumbling a bit, you slowly sit up and look through the windshield to see a roadside inn in front of you both. Nodding, you let him help you out of the car and toward the check-in desk.

"Does your neck hurt?" He asks quietly.

"No. Just sore right now." You whisper back tiredly, limbs feeling heavy.

When you're both checked into a room for the night, you waste no time dragging yourself toward one of the beds.

"Don't lay down just yet." Aaron is quick to say, placing your bags down and going to wash his hands.

You reckoned that if he weren't such a great agent, he'd fare well as a nurse from the way he was deftly redressing the bandages on your neck, disinfecting and cleaning like it was second nature to him.

He can sense your questioning gaze and he huffs a bit sheepishly. "I, uh, asked Reid for some pointers on the phone. And searched the internet."

"Let me guess, WebMD?" You smile weakly.

Aaron's face breaks out into a small grin and he chuckles. "Yeah, and ReidMD."

You snort a bit at his joke. "That was awful."

"Jack says I'm getting really good at making dad jokes." Aaron quips back playfully.

"I'll have to teach him that it's not good to lie like that." You muse, hiding a small smile as he narrows his eyes at you in fake offense.

It felt like you were gaining a bit of normalcy back, and you would be lying if you said you didn't miss being able to talk freely like this with Aaron.

"Alright, done." He sighs and hesitantly rests his hand on your uninjured shoulder. "Anything else you'd like me to do?"

You caught onto his true meaning, knowing he was trying to make further amends with you. Considering it for a moment, you shake your head gently and smile tiredly. "No, you're all good."

Aaron lets out a shaky exhale before leaning down to hug you, being mindful to not press on your injuries. "I love you, kiddo."

"I love you, too." You whisper back and pat his back reassuringly.

You would be out of commission for a while and that reality weighed down on you, but Aaron's reassurance and presence provided you with some relief.

You were tired, but for now you could rest.

[drdemonprince]

Gender liberation, in the end, is not a war between the good group and the bad. It is a collective struggle against the laws, cultural norms, social rules, and institutional policies that restrict all people, and uses rigid gendered categories to keep us so restricted. 

I think if we are going to be able to move forward in this fight, trans men must abandon the notion that other men are fundamentally the “bad” gender — and that we don’t belong to that category because of our transness. We must embrace manhood as a state of both strength and profound lostness, an immense liability as much as it is a source of gender euphoric joy, and see the frustrated wanderings of other marginalized masculine people as of a piece with our own. 

And so, in the interest of helping us all find our way to each other, here are some of the major struggles that trans men and cis men have in common: 

Gender Dysphoria 

Many people believe the experience of having gender dysphoria is something like having a phantom limb, or seeing the wrong image in the mirror, but that’s rarely true. 

For a lot of trans people, gender dysphoria feels more like a maddening insecurity about how we look and how we are being perceived that seems to know no satisfaction, a mental itching that wanders all across our bodies, our faces, down our throats, across our hairlines, and even all over our clothes. It’s the uncertain sense we are not being ourselves correctly, an out-of-placeness that makes our very being feel like it has no right to exist.

Gender dysphoria is not caused by having the “wrong” gendered brain for one’s body (the notion of “male” and “female” brains is a myth), nor is it a mental illness afflicting only trans people. Rather, gender dysphoria is a pretty sensible trauma response to society’s unrelenting and coercive gendering. All people are categorized as a gender, assigned rules, and threatened with becoming less of a person should they fail to measure up. This means that even cisgender people can experience the terror of feeling that they’ve failed to enact their gender correctly and make themselves socially acceptable— a sensation that often gets called “gender dysphoria.” 

I think I first realized that cis people could be gender dysphoric when the actress Amanda Bynes revealed she had tumbled into a major depressive episode after watching herself portray a male character in the comedy She’s the Man. The disturbance she felt from watching herself enact the “wrong” gender sounded exactly like how I felt back when I looked in the mirror at myself as a “woman.” 

In 2019, when Jason Derulo complained about his bulge being removed with CGI for his role in the film Cats, I was reminded once again that cis people can feel utterly, dysphorically wrong in their bodies or how they are perceived. Each year, millions of cis people spend thousands of dollars on breast augmentations, jaw implants, hair plugs, and leg-lengthening surgeries, at least in part for gender dysphoric reasons, and if you’ve worn both male and female clothing before, you’ve likely recognized how much of the tailoring of garments is done to deliberately accentuate or even manufacture the gendered features of a person’s shape. 

Cis people feel ill-at-ease in their bodies, and fail to measure up to gender normative standards too. That’s how artificially constructed and harshly enforced these standards really are.

In recent years, I’ve spent a good amount of time in gay male bathhouses. When I reveal this fact, even to other gay men, I’m sometimes met with confessions of deep bodily insecurity. The idea of being nude in a highly gendered sexual marketplace often causes people’s worst gendered fears to bubble up. 

“I could never go to a place like that,” one cis gay man in his forties confessed to me. “My dick is too small. Nobody would ever want to look at me.” 

“I wouldn’t fit in there,” said another cis man, a short, effeminate type with long flowing hair. “They might think I was a girl and kick me out or harass me.” 

These men knew, of course, that I don’t have a penis, and can be mistaken for a woman from some angles. And I had just told each of them I’d never had any problem visiting the sauna. Yet they couldn’t shake the sense that I was doing manhood correctly enough, and they were somehow doing it wrong. Despite ostensibly being “cis,” they weren’t quite sure that manhood as a category could hold them as they really were — not when they were nude and vulnerable, surrounded by their idea of the proper man. 

Of course, having been in these spaces frequently, I could have told them that nobody there is the “proper” kind of man at all. There’s just regular human beings in there — with sunken chests, stretch marks, amputated limbs, multi-layered bellies, rounded backs, tiny hands, and eye patches. 

Over the years, cis men have shared dozens of gender dysphoric insecurities with me, about everything from the width of their shoulders to the length of their eyelashes to the way they hold a can of beer. And in some of the sections below, we will explore more specific examples, because these sources of dysphoria mirror trans men’s almost exactly. But it’s important to establish first that the major commonality across both groups of men is our fear we’re not being men correctly at all. 

Every man, I believe, grapples with the disjoint between their actual, complex human selves and the strong, built, stoic, powerful, masculine image that has been pushed upon us. And we fear living up to that standard because the consequences of that failure can be so harsh — these norms are quite violently imposed. 

Failing to be a man, in some sense, is what being a man actually means. We are united in the precarity of our position, as powerful as it is. A man in a tank-top with a bald spot sitting beside a lush pond. Photo by Beth Macdonald on Unsplash

Hair Insecurities 

“I wish I could grow a full beard so that I could pass better,” says Topher, a trans guy with long hair in his mid-twenties. “But I’m realizing that cis men with long hair get misgendered often too.” 

Dunmer, a bisexual trans guy, echoes this experience. “In this one chemistry class a few years ago, both me and this cis guy got called ma’am by a professor. I’m a rather effeminate/androgynous dude, but I have prominent facial hair. And the other guy who got misgendered was pretty masculine, but had long hair and was clean shaven. We both just kinda looked at each other and shrugged after it happened.” 

I’ve found that numerous cis and trans men harbor deep insecurities about their hair — where it’s growing, where it doesn’t, how it looks on their bodies, and where they might be losing it. It may sound like a frivolous subject at first blush, but hair is integral to gendered perceptions, as well as how others view our sexual attractiveness, race, and age. 

Trans men worry frequently about potential hair loss on T for more aesthetic reasons. I’ve known numerous trans masculine people who have avoided starting hormones because they’ve feared eventually going bald and becoming “less attractive.” And in this we aren’t alone, as 52 billion dollars gets spent each year (by people of all genders) on hair loss prevention treatments. 

“It’s helped me to realize that cis men are also scared of going bald,” says Topher. “When I worry about something gender-wise, I ask myself if cis men deal with what I deal with, and it’s helped me settle into my identity more.” 

Cis and trans men also share complicated feelings about body hair. Though being covered in a dark blanket of fuzz certainly reads as “masculine,” male beauty standards for the last several decades have eschewed hairiness in favor of a the glistening, action-figure-y look. Trans and cis men alike often fear that hair sprouting on their backs will make them unattractive, or that growing a “neckbeard” will be seen as slovenly. And it’s no coincidence that hairiness has often been linked with fatness and being racialized in many people’s minds — the uncontrolled proliferation of hair is often cast as animalistic, unclean, disgusting, less than human. 

But some men have sought refuge from such punishing standards within the gay Bear community. 

“I have never felt more welcomed in my masculinity than I have around other bears,” says Kody, a trans male bear. “I’m literally growing in my manhood — getting bigger, hairier, louder, taking up more space. While being really soft and tender too.” 

I wrote about the many struggles that unite trans and cis men, and how a deep appreciation for our commonalities is essential to the fight for gender liberation. You can read the full piece for free, or have it narrated to you by the Substack app, at drdevonprice.substack.com.

[denwritesandcries]

Hug me Tighter – S.C

Pairing: sam carpenter x fem!reader

Summary: You’re only trying to make your girlfriend take a nap with you, the fact that it’s in a hospital bed after one of the worst nights of your lives doesn't really matter.

Word count: 1,8k.

Content: post-scream VI, cursing, tooth-pudding fluff, mentions of violence, cuddling, pet names, long dialogues, REALLY soft gfs.

Note: Damn, this might be the sweetest and cheesy thing I’ve ever written. Could also be an AU, since Anika is alive, or just Scream, if they could actually be happy.

English is not my first language.

You realized that you were waking up at a terribly slow pace, as if everything was suddenly in slow motion and even the smallest movement took hours to run and every second was longer than the previous one. Your body feels heavy and comfortably warm, resting on perhaps the best bed in which you've ever slept. You blinked slowly, failing to keep your eyes open, every movement of your eyelids almost making you fall into unconsciousness again.

Your body shudders with the feeling of a long yawn crossing you and you turn your head to bury your face back in the location and go to sleep again, only to be surprised when you come across hot skin instead of what your brain thought was a really soft pillow. It is only then that you register a movement against your back, light and constant, almost as smooth as your own sleepy state, climbing and descending your spine and enveloping you even more in this security bubble almost supernaturally.

Another weight lies between your neck and your head, right at the point of your wrist and there's another heavier resting on the top of your head, although you're sure of the mess your hair should be right now. Your hands grope and instinctively grab a handful of familiar fabric beneath you, feeling the texture of a sweater you knew very well.

“Sam,” your hoarse voice breaks the silence.

You were tempted to let the darkness and the inviting fog of sleep consume you again as you relaxed and held another yawn, but your resting place vibrated with a low laugh.

“‘M sorry, baby. Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” you denied with a satisfied sigh, sinking against her body.

The chin on your head pulled away and the hand on your back stopped and you immediately missed the contact, finally opening your eyes and lifting your head to protest.

“You're feeling better?”

Sam's question catches you off guard and you pause, staring into your girlfriend's soft brown eyes and raised eyebrow with confusion. Frowning, you finally decide to take a look at the place you are in and come across a messy white room with machines nearby. A hospital room.

The events of the last few hours come back to you in a quick, jumbled flash. The confrontation with the Ghostfaces, the deaths, the police, the ambulance... and the surgery, because of course in addition to all the terror and threats of the last few days you also ended up being stabbed.

Well, that explains why you feel so sluggish then. You're high on drugs. That is, if the IV prick in your arm is any indication.

The hand on the back of your neck moves up towards your face, fingers tracing the contour of your chin and jaw, thumb rubbing soft circles on your cheek, your body relaxes and you lean into her touch, sighing all too contentedly at the affection. The memory of waking up a lot more groggy before and convincing Sam to lay down too when you found her sitting next to the hospital bed holding your hand tightly slowly returning to your hazy mind. She was a little hesitant at first, but it wasn't that difficult to convince her to hold you with the excuse that it would only be for a few minutes. You bet it must have been a few hours already.

“Hm,” you murmured absently, stretching against her, “I’m definitely feeling much better now.”

“That's good,” your girlfriend huffed softly, “I can't feel my legs in this position anymore.”

That caught your attention.

“Am I too heavy?” You ask, lifting your head to examine her for any bruises from the previous fight, “I can move if it’s hurting you.”

“No,” She squeezes you tighter quickly, “I’m good here.”

Sam's own eyes were half-lidded, almost closing over the last few minutes you were asleep, but she refused to give in to the urge to doze off too. It would have been such a waste when she could just hug you and breathe properly for the first time since the last few hellish weeks you've all had.

The TV on the wall had long since been muted, with the image of some random animal documentary flickering in the background. Sam's head rested against the pillows and your body lay happily spread over hers – and she looked perfectly satisfied for someone who had complained and complained about your puppy dog ​​eyes before.

Somewhere between convincing Sam to lie down and pretending to pay attention to the screen, you ended up falling asleep, one of your arms hanging lazily over the side of the bed. Sam realized this instantly, feeling your weight finally relax on her. It made her relax too. Not completely. Sam was never completely relaxed, no matter how tired she was, not anymore, especially not after a night like that. But she managed to feel good enough to enjoy the moment.

The environment was as welcoming as any hospital could be, but her embrace brought a sense of security that lulled you perfectly to sleep and the knowledge that everyone was okay and in the next room allowed Sam to let her guard down. Yet falling asleep and losing that, the feeling that nothing could happen as long as she held you tight and ran her fingers over your warm skin, seeing and hearing every sleepy sound and movement you made – from a tired sigh as you fit, to one of your hands founding the collar of her sweater and grabbing it, holding her close – it would be a waste.

“You sure?” You hesitate, searching her eyes for any hint of hidden discomfort.

Sam sighs, nodding: “You wouldn’t believe how comfortable I am right now.”

“Okay then,” you rest your ear on her chest, feeling her head nod and her heart bumping, still a little high. A yawn crosses your lips, “But let me know if you need me to move.”

She hums in response and you fall into a comfortable silence for a while, the sound of machines running and your soft breaths in the same rhythm left you trying your hardest not to fall asleep again until you felt your girlfriend's chest vibrate beneath you again in a barely contained laugh.

“You’re cute when you’re tired.”

“Huh?” you muttered, lifting your drooping head and finally refocusing your vision on her.

“I should probably get up now, let you get some rest.” Sam said, reluctantly removing her arms from you so she could move away.

You shook your head, grabbing one of her hands and letting them fall to the side of the bed, swinging freely in the air.

“No, I’m good here.” You echoed, denying nonchalantly. You let your head find a place on her neck, making her lie back against the pillows.

Sam sighed against you slowly, much more out of satisfaction – and relief – than annoyance at your insistence, returning to the task of running her fingers down your back until you spoke again.

“Where’s Tara?” You ask, voice muffled by the face buried in her neck, “And the twins?”

“They're watching Anika.” She responds and you get alarmed, before Sam reassures you, “She's gonna be alright, she just needs to stay in the hospital for a while longer. And also a lot of rest. Like you, by the way.”

“I am resting.”

If Sam hadn't been fighting sleep for over an hour now, she would have a wide, stupid grin plastered on her face at the sound of your indignant mumble. Since that wasn't the case, she contented herself with a small smile.

“Whatever you say, amor.”

She surrenders, completely this time, without any more false attempts to leave. Sam felt as if you were the one rocking her and not the other way around, as if nothing else could touch her, even for a little while. There were no worries about horrible jobs, breakdowns in therapy, pressure with college exams and much less paranoia about the existence of cinematic serial killers. Nothing else could exist in your – literal – white room. Just the two of you in that small bed.

Each synchronized breath of your chest next to hers pressed her own ribs, the delicate breath sending delicious shivers down her spine and making her completely aware of how close your bodies were and shocking her at how it still didn't feel close enough.

“I love you,” she says. Rasped, you barely hear it. “I love you so freaking much that sometimes I just want to drown into your chest and curl up between your ribs, with your heart.” She takes a breath, then pauses, hesitantly: “...Is that too weird?”

“...Well,” you gasp, heart completely racing against your ears, “No weirder than what we already go through on a daily basis, I guess.”

Sam groaned at your response, feeling like a lovesick teenager in one of the movies Tara and Mindy love to make fun of. Rambling poetically about her passion.

But, screw it, that's exactly what she is, right? Sam thought. Let her have it. She deserves it.

(Her therapist would definitely pat her on the back for that thought.)

Unlike what Sam thought she should feel with the realization of that thought, her heart didn't skip a beat uncomfortably, her hands didn't get sweaty and cold with the doubt of how to deal with this. It kept pounding in that same slow, steady, familiar rhythm, with one of the most precious and loved people of her life completely aware of how she felt.

“I feel like drowning into your chest all the time too.”

Her favorite place in the world was anywhere you were together and it was physically impossible to be closer than that at the moment, although she wouldn't give up trying.

It was pure and simple happiness. Warmth and security that captured her stomach and left it churning with what felt like a million bubbles popping simultaneously.

When you first came to her life and Sam realized being falling for you, she thought her love would swallow her. That it would be something she would keep to herself until it exploded. You seemed to have made it your mission to prove her otherwise.

“I didn’t say ‘all the time’ tho.”

Here you were, together and fine.

“Oh, shut up.”

Your grip on Sam's hand tightened in very bad feigned irritation and when you rose quickly to give her a kiss, your girlfriend burst into laughter and your lips hit her strong jaw instead.

“That tickles, baby.”

“I was shooting for your lips, but you moved.” You simply shrugged, leaning into her again and this time she met you on the way, a stupid smile growing between you and breaking the kiss too soon. You lay back down and Sam took a long breath, leaving one last kiss on your forehead.

This time, when her head feels heavy and droops from sleep, Sam does nothing to stop it, letting the feeling finally consume her.

Nothing, not even in her most vivid fantasies, had ever been so perfect.

And if by chance Tara ends up sending Sam a photo of the two of you napping the next day when everyone is getting ready to go home and it becomes the new wallpaper on her phone, well… that's nobody's business.

[lokisgoodgirl]

Hey friend!

I've just had surgery and I'm in for at least 4-6 weeks of recovery time. Any chance I could request a Loki comfort fic? I could really use some fluff 🥲🥺

Hey love! Sending you all the cuddles on your recovery. You're doing amazing! Here's a little something - I hope it helps❤️

Soft Kisses

You woke to the tinkle of a piano. Some song you’d heard, but couldn’t have named—even if you weren’t on the strongest painkillers you’d ever had. Squinting against the light, you lifted your head from the sofa where you’d fallen asleep. “Oki?” Loki turned, fingers moving over the keys like liquid. A gentle smile spread on his lips as he tapered the music to a perfect end. “Hello my love,” he said, pushing the stool back with a soft scrape. He paced across the floor, crouching to your level and pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “How are you feeling?” “It’s not my head that’s the problem.”

His brows rose. “Bad jokes? My, my...you must be feeling better.” You shifted onto your back, biting back a grimace. A small grunt escaped and immediately Loki’s hands cushioned your neck, your shoulder. “What can I do?”

His eyes were pools of summer seas, shining with an empathy he saved only for you. You slid a hand up his cheek, savouring the smooth angle of his jaw. “Kisses?” It was a whisper. Loki smiled. “I fear it may unsettle what ails you—the doctor instructed no vigorous activity.” “Soft kisses…” Loki pretended to think it over. “Well, if you think you can restrain yourself then I suppose that might be alright.” He leant forward, his scent invading your nostrils, and the pain evaporated as his mouth pressed to yours like petals brushing grass. It worked against your lips, waxing and waning with the delicate breath of a melody. You wound an arm around his neck, pulling him closer. Fingertips grazed through his hair, a small gasp trickling from your throat as something, somewhere, pulled. It hurt. “Oh, darling,” he breathed, half a chide, guiding you back to the pillow. “I hate to see you like this.” His mouth worked down your throat, every inch like sinking into a warm bath. The weight of his love was a blanket, nestling you head to toe. Loki paused on your sternum, looking up with black lashes rimming almond eyes as his chin rested on your chest. “There must be something else I can do.” You shook your head, tapping your lips still warm from his soft kisses twice. And below you, Loki smiled.

[marysfics]

Shifting Glances 2

Week after week, you see her in the waiting room.

Angst, EMDR, Comfort, Fluff

Part 1

Note: In this story, you'll find references to EMDR therapy. I’ve undergone EMDR therapy myself for several years, and while it has been challenging, it has also brought me relief. It's important to note that EMDR can be a unique experience for everyone. The way it's depicted here reflects my personal journey. If your experience with EMDR is different, that's completely okay. Feel free to share your thoughts, but let's all remember to approach these discussions with kindness and respect for one another's experiences.

The next time you see Alexia, it’s different.

It’s not the waiting room glance or the brief nod of acknowledgment. This time, she’s sitting across from you at a small café just down the street from the clinic. The air is heavy with the scent of coffee and the quiet hum of conversation, but you feel like you’re in a bubble, isolated from the world. The connection between you has grown since that night outside the clinic, and though you’ve met up a few times now, the weight of the unspoken things between you has only intensified.

You’re sipping on your drink, watching her fingers nervously trace the rim of her cup. She’s quieter today, more reserved. You can see it in the tightness of her jaw, the way her leg bounces restlessly beneath the table. She’s holding something back.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, she speaks.

“It’s my knee,” she says quietly, her voice carrying a heavy undertone of frustration. “The doctors thought it healed, you know? Two years of rehab, and I thought I was fine. But… after a few matches, it’s been acting up again.”

She looks up at you, and the vulnerability in her eyes nearly undoes you.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly. “I thought I was past it, that I could just… move on. But now I’m back to square one, and it’s messing with my head.”

You listen, the guilt already rising in your chest. You want to offer her comfort, to be there for her like you promised. But the walls you’ve built around yourself—those same walls that have protected you for so long—won’t come down. You can’t find the words, can’t let yourself be as open as she is being with you.

“I don’t think people understand,” she continues, her gaze distant, as if she’s lost in memories. “It’s not just the physical pain. It’s like… everything I worked for feels like it’s slipping away again. The surgery, the rehab, the time off—I went through all of that, and now, here I am, questioning if my body will ever be what it was. If I will ever be what I was.”

Her words hang in the air between you, thick with unspoken fears and the weight of her struggle. She’s opening up, showing you the cracks in her armor. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to do the same.

“I’m sorry, Alexia,” you say, your voice soft but hesitant. It feels like a weak offering, barely enough for the depth of what she’s sharing. “That must be really hard.”

She looks at you, her eyes searching yours, as if she’s waiting for more. Waiting for you to open up in return, to meet her vulnerability with your own.

But you can’t.

Instead, you offer a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment of her pain. You feel like a coward, sitting there with your heart locked up tight while she’s spilling hers out on the table between you.

“I just…” she hesitates, her voice trembling slightly. “I don’t know who I am without football. And now, with this happening again, it’s like everything I thought I’d regained is slipping away. My confidence, my mental health—everything.”

Her words hit you hard, because you understand exactly what she means. You know the feeling of losing parts of yourself, of watching pieces of your identity crumble. But still, you remain silent, trapped in your own fear.

Alexia takes a shaky breath, wiping at her eyes quickly, trying to hide the tears that are forming. “I’m sorry. I’m dumping all of this on you, and you… you barely even know me.”

“No,” you say quickly, feeling the guilt twist tighter in your chest. “I’m glad you’re telling me. I just—I don’t know how to help. I wish I could.”

You hate how hollow the words sound. She’s reaching out, and you’re standing on the edge, unable to take that leap with her.

“I don’t need you to fix anything,” she says softly, her gaze holding yours. “I just… I need someone to understand. And for some reason, I feel like you do.”

Her words make your heart ache, because she’s right. You do understand. You understand the pain, the fear, the uncertainty of not knowing who you are anymore. But the thought of opening up about it, of letting her see the parts of you that you’ve buried for so long, is terrifying.

“I wish I could be more… open,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s hard for me. There’s a lot I’m still trying to figure out.”

Alexia’s expression softens, and she reaches across the table, her hand brushing lightly against yours. It’s a small gesture, but it feels monumental.

“I get it,” she says gently. “I do. But just… promise me you’ll try. We don’t have to talk about it right now, but… when you’re ready, I’ll be here. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to go through whatever it is alone.”

Her words are so kind, so understanding, and it makes you feel even worse. You’re sitting here, feeling her pain, but you can’t bring yourself to reciprocate that vulnerability. You want to, but the walls you’ve built are so high, so thick, that you don’t know how to bring them down.

“I promise I’ll try,” you say quietly, though it feels like a lie, even as you say it.

She nods, offering you a small, sad smile, as if she knows that your promise is just as fragile as you feel. And maybe she does. Maybe she knows that breaking down those walls takes time—more time than either of you might have expected.

The rest of the conversation drifts into safer territory after that. You talk about small things—her training regimen, your next therapy session, the little frustrations of everyday life. But there’s an unspoken tension between you, a knowledge that you’re both holding something back. For her, it’s the fear of losing everything she’s worked for. For you, it’s the fear of letting anyone get too close.

As you part ways, Alexia pulls you into a brief, tentative hug. It catches you off guard, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you let her hold you, if only for a moment, and in that embrace, you feel the weight of everything you haven’t said.

And as you walk home, the guilt gnaws at you. You know she’s trying to break through to you, to offer you the same understanding you’ve given her. But no matter how much you want to, you can’t let her in. Not yet.

Maybe one day.

But for now, the walls remain firmly in place, and you can only hope that when you’re finally ready to let them fall, she’ll still be there, waiting for you.

The next week, you wake up with a knot in your stomach. It’s an ominous feeling that lingers, whispering that today’s session is going to be harder than usual. You push it aside, forcing yourself to get out of bed and go through your morning routine. But the feeling doesn’t fade; it clings to you like a shadow, and you can’t shake the sense of dread.

When you arrive at the clinic, the usual air of anticipation is replaced by a heavy sense of anxiety. You check in with the receptionist and take a seat in the waiting area, your heart pounding as you wait for your therapist to call you in.

After what feels like an eternity, your therapist, Dr. Collins, finally opens the door and gestures for you to come inside. “Hi there,” she says, her tone warm and inviting, but you can sense her professional concern. “How are you feeling today?”

“Uh, not great,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. You can’t meet her gaze, focusing instead on the floor, as if it might ground you in the swirling chaos of your emotions.

Dr. Collins nods, leading you to the familiar chair in her office. “That’s understandable. EMDR can bring up a lot, especially when we’re working through difficult memories. Let’s take it one step at a time, okay?”

You nod, but your stomach churns as she sets up the equipment. The rhythmic beeping begins, and you know you’ll have to confront things you’d rather keep buried.

“Take a deep breath,” she instructs gently, her eyes steady on yours. “Focus on your thoughts, your feelings, and what comes up. You’re safe here.”

As the session progresses, you find yourself slipping into a dark place—a memory of a childhood fight with your mother that you thought you had buried. The anger, the confusion, the hurt—everything comes flooding back. Your breath quickens, and panic begins to rise.

“Focus on the feelings, the sensations in your body,” Dr. Collins urges, her voice a steady anchor in the storm. “You’re safe. Just let it flow.”

But it’s harder today. You feel like you’re drowning in it, and the sensations become overwhelming. Each pulse of light from the machine feels like a wave crashing over you, and the emotions threaten to pull you under.

“I can’t—I can’t do this!” you gasp, gripping the armrests of the chair.

“Just a little longer,” she replies, her voice calm yet firm. “Stay with it. You can do this.”

Finally, when the session ends, you stumble out of the office, your heart racing and your skin clammy. You feel nauseous, the world spinning around you.

“Take your time,” Dr. Collins calls after you as you exit the room. “It’s normal to feel this way after a session. Just breathe.”

But you barely hear her as you push through the waiting area, desperately needing air. You step outside, the cool breeze hitting your face like a splash of cold water. It feels like a brief reprieve, but it does little to alleviate the sickness in your stomach.

And then you see her.

Alexia is sitting in the waiting room, her knee propped up on a chair, her expression a mixture of worry and relief. The moment she sees you, her face lights up, but it quickly shifts to concern as she takes in your pale complexion and the sheen of sweat on your forehead.

“Hey!” she calls out, her voice strained with worry. She rises, limping slightly, and instinctively, you feel your heart clench. “You’re late. I was getting worried.”

“I—I had my session,” you manage to say, though your voice trembles, and you can feel the nausea rising again.

“What happened?” she asks, approaching you slowly, her brow furrowing deeper with concern. You can see the tension in her shoulders, a reminder of her own struggles, and suddenly you wish you could lean on her, but the walls are still up.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice laced with urgency. “You’re early. I thought you weren’t coming.”

You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself. “I—uh, it was… really hard today.” Your voice is shaky, and you can see the worry deepen in her gaze as she takes in your pale face.

“Come on, let’s get you some air,” she insists, her hand gently guiding your elbow. But as she moves closer, you notice the slight limp in her gait. “Wait,” you say, alarmed. “Your knee—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts you off, though her expression betrays her. “I just want to help you. Come on.”

Despite your protests, she leads you out of the clinic and into the fresh air. The moment you step outside, you feel a wave of coolness wash over you, but it’s not enough to quell the sickness rolling in your stomach. You take a moment to breathe, but Alexia is already taking charge, her determination unyielding.

“Let’s go to my place,” she says. “You need to rest. I can’t just leave you like this.”

“No, Alexia, I can’t—” you start to argue, but the look in her eyes silences you. She’s limping but still firm, her concern for you overshadowing her own struggles.

“Please,” she pleads. “Just let me take care of you for a bit. You look like you need it.”

You hesitate, torn between your desire for solitude and the undeniable pull of her concern. “Alexia, I don’t want to impose—”

“Stop.” She interrupts, her voice firm yet gentle. “You’re not imposing. You need someone, and I want to help. Just let me be there for you for once.”

The sincerity in her voice makes it hard to argue. Maybe you do need someone right now. And despite your reservations, you find yourself nodding, letting her lead you out of the clinic.

As you walk together, you can’t help but glance at her knee, concern prickling at the back of your mind. “Are you sure you’re okay to walk? I mean, you’re limping…”

Alexia shrugs it off, though you can see the grimace that flashes across her face. “It’s just a little sore from the last few recovery sessions. I’ll be fine.”

You don’t know if you believe her, but you’re too exhausted to press the matter further. The two of you reach her apartment, and she pushes the door open, ushering you inside. The familiar surroundings feel different somehow, heavier with the weight of your emotions.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she says, leading you to the couch. “I’ll get you some water.”

You sink into the cushions, trying to settle your racing heart as you watch her move about the small space. She’s taken the time to make it her own, with photos on the walls and plants dotting the shelves. But even in this comfort, you feel a tightness in your chest, a reminder of everything you’ve just unearthed.

“Here,” she says, returning with a glass of water and a concerned expression. “Drink this.”

You take the glass, your fingers brushing against hers. The touch sends a jolt of warmth through you, and for a moment, you let yourself feel grateful for her presence. “Thanks,” you mumble, trying to focus on the water rather than the chaos in your mind.

After a few sips, you set the glass down and exhale shakily. “I’m sorry for dragging you away from your session. You didn’t have to do this.”

Alexia sits down beside you, her expression softening. “I wanted to. It’s okay to lean on someone, you know? You don’t always have to be the strong one.”

Her words hang heavy in the air, and the guilt twists in your stomach again. You want to tell her how much it means to you that she cares, how deeply you appreciate her willingness to be there. But the walls are still up, the barriers you’ve built holding you captive.

Yet beneath that weight, there’s another feeling rising within you—an overwhelming desire to feel her close, to have her warmth beside you, to let go of the isolation that’s been your constant companion. The thought scares you. The fear of vulnerability mingles with a yearning for connection, and it sends your heart racing.

“Alexia,” you find yourself saying, your voice trembling slightly. “Can we… could you stay close for a bit?”

She looks at you, surprise flickering in her eyes, but then her expression softens. “Of course. You don’t have to ask twice.”

You shift a little on the couch, turning to face her, your heart pounding in your chest. As she settles in next to you, her body fitting against yours, a wave of comfort washes over you. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you into a gentle spooning position. Her warmth envelops you, grounding you in a way you didn’t know you needed.

You close your eyes, grateful for her presence and the soothing rhythm of her breathing. You can feel the subtle rise and fall of her chest against your back, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the memories, the pain, the suffocating anxiety. All that matters is this connection, this shared space that feels both safe and terrifying.

“Is this okay?” she whispers softly, her voice a soothing balm against the tumult of your thoughts.

You nod, feeling a weight lift slightly as her embrace tightens around you. “Yeah, it’s perfect,” you murmur, though the admission feels both exhilarating and frightening. It’s one thing to crave closeness; it’s another to let someone in this deeply.

“Good,” she replies, her breath warm against your ear. “Just breathe. I’m here.”

You focus on that reassurance, letting it seep into your bones. With her close, you can almost forget the turmoil swirling within you, the fears and insecurities that cling like shadows. You let the moment wash over you, finding solace in the shared silence, the warmth radiating from her body anchoring you to the present.

As the minutes pass, the tension in your chest begins to ease. You can hear the faint sounds of the show playing in the background, but all you’re aware of is the comfort of her hold and the gentle rise and fall of her breath. For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel a sense of belonging.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” you finally say, the words spilling out before you can second-guess yourself.

“I’m glad too,” Alexia replies, her voice soft and steady. “You don’t have to face anything alone. I promise.”

You close your eyes tighter, trying to let that promise sink in, trying to let go of the guilt that threatens to creep back in. As you lay there, cocooned in her embrace, you realize that maybe, just maybe, this is the first step toward letting those walls down—one small moment of connection at a time.

[fozmeadows]

TERFism really is just white beauty politics in a pseudo-feminist hat, because there's simply no escaping the fact that every concern-trolling argument TERFs make against transition, and particularly towards trans men, boils down to the worst thing you can be is an ugly woman, where "ugly" is code for "insufficiently young, white and/or traditionally feminine."

The ridiculing of trans women, for instance, centers disgust at the idea of anyone with traditionally "masculine" features attempting to pass as female, which - as has been well-documented by this point - frequently sees butch women, women of colour, older women, tall women, strong women, and any other woman who doesn't fit this dogwhistle standard of prettiness caught in the crossfire. Masculinity is incompatible with beauty, this logic goes, and all women must be beautiful. Ergo, the more masculine you appear, the less female you are. TERFs, of course, will try to deny their active participation in anything so ragingly unfeminist as policing women's bodies in pursuit of a narrow physical ideal, and yet, as the recent furor over Imane Khalif has roundly shown, this is exactly what they end up doing: an endless reinvention of new and shittier forms of phrenology to explain why this woman or that is not, in fact, really a woman.

Accepting trans women who don't, by conventional standards, pass, means accepting the femininity of women - both cis and trans - who diverge from these beauty standards: who have facial hair or receding hairlines, deep voices or big hands and feet, who are muscular or tall or strong-jawed, who are either incapable or undesirous of pregnancy, or one of a thousand other things we're told (despite the fact that humans are not a strongly dimorphic species) are exclusively masculine traits. But trans women who do pass engender a different terror: the fear that beauty is not an exclusively "feminine" inheritance, such that someone deemed a man might natively posses it and thereby render "real" feminine beauty somehow less special.

And then we have the scaremongering around trans men, which frequently presents as "concern" over, specifically, impressionable girls and young women being tricked into harming their healthy bodies by the nefarious Trans Cabal. That this same concern is never extended to adult women is the giveaway, because adult women are, by this reckoning, inherently less valuable, being neither as pretty nor as fertile as their younger counterparts. It's already too late to prevent their inevitable descent into the ugliness of ageing, and either they're parents already (in which case, their biological purpose has been served, thus rendering their identities past that point moot) or else have been written off as too old for childbearing anyway (which adds to their irrelevance).

Which makes it all the more ironic how many of the stated negatives of transition for trans men dovetails with things the cis female body normally does as it ages and/or postpartum. Long-term binding is decried for the way it causes the breasts to sag or deform and the nipples to enlarge, for instance, when this is exactly what happens as a consequence of pregnancy and breastfeeding. An increase in facial and body hair is common for post-menopausal women, let alone those with PCOS. Plenty of women naturally have deep voices, with many growing raspier regardless with age, while both ageing and childbirth inevitably alter the appearance of genitalia, sometimes radically. Even top surgery, the procedure most maligned as "butchery," has its cis analogues: not only for survivors of breast cancer or those who, due to genetic predisposition towards aggressive forms of it, opt for preventative mastectomies, but those who undergo breast reduction surgery, whether for cosmetic or health reasons - while some women, on yet a third hand, are natively flat-chested.

Taken together, then, what unifies the demonizing fear of trans women and the infantilizing dismissal of trans men by TERFs is an obsession with a specific, youth-and-Eurocentric-based notion of female beauty, where being deemed too masculine in either direction is the disqualifying factor. In TERFlandia, masculinity therefore becomes a synonym for ugliness: trans women can't shed it sufficiently to be counted at any age (unless they pass, which is a prospect too terrifying to countenance), while trans men must be stopped at all costs from embracing it (unless they're already old, in which case they no longer matter). Which is not to say that transphobia more broadly lacks for other avenues of attack; it's just that concern around trans bodies and the necessity of controlling them inevitably circles back to beauty, youth and fertility as the abiding hallmarks of womanhood, and as soon as you point this out, all the other arguments start to unravel.

[girlgenius1111]

resistance & persistence

angst, fluff, injury / injury recovery. claudia pina x reader.

R suffers and injury during a game, and struggles in the aftermath to accept help from Claudia.

You knew it was bad the moment you went down; if the pain wasn't enough of an indicator, the crack you heard definitely was. The game had been going well; a champions league group stage game against Benfica at home in Barcelona, that your team was leading by several goals. You might have been about to score again, having just nutmegged a defender. You had one defender left to beat, streaking towards the goal, when she decided to foul you. Instead of just tripping you up, though, she threw a foot out, stomping down on the inside of your ankle, sending it bending the complete wrong way.

You fell hard onto the ground, immediately rolling up into a little ball on your side, grasping at your ankle. You let out a cry of pain that could be heard across the field, and much to your dismay, you could feel tears pricking your eyelids. You kept your face pressed into the grass, it poking harshly against your skin, even as you felt a hand on your back, trying to roll you over.

"Come on chica, let me see," Patri spoke softly, her hand patting your back lightly to prompt you to move. Fighting back a sob, you shook your head into the grass, a few tears escaping.

You'd never felt pain like this before. You played a professional sport, and you were a pretty aggressive player too, not a stranger to injuries. The pain radiating from your ankle was mind numbing, sharp and hot, throbbing under where your hands wrapped tight around it.

A new voice spoke, firmer than Patri's: "Si, y/n, vamos," and Mapi's hands pulled your shoulder, forcing you onto your back. Your eyes were still squeezed shut, and you let out another whimper of pain at the slight movement . Your senses were slowly returning to you as you got used to the pain, and you could hear loud voices arguing with the ref. Cracking your eyes open, you saw Mapi and Patri leaning over you, both looking concerned.

"What hurts? Do you need the physios?" Mapi questioned, and you could only nod your head, looking up at her through tear-blurred vision. Taking a deep breath, you answered her first question.

"Ankle. It's bad," was all you could get out before you clenched your jaw back together, another wave of pain washing over you. Mapi motioned to the sidelines, calling for the physios, before she turned her attention back to you, grabbing one of your hands and holding tightly.

"How bad?" she asked. You opened your mouth to try to speak, but a sob came out before you could stop it, and suddenly you were crying. "Okay, okay, you're alright, everything is gonna be fine." Mapi's voice was soft, and you could hear worry bleeding into her tone. You never cried, and you never stayed down long after a tackle, even if it hurt. For you to still be on the ground, openly crying, and asking for the physios, it was clear that your injury was bad.

You brought a hand up to cover your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. You tried to control your tears as the physios arrived, taking Mapi's place by your side, forcing you to answer their questions. When they called for the heinous orange stretcher, you felt yourself dissolve into another wave of emotion; not being able to walk off the field meant that this was as bad as it felt, as bad as you thought it would be. As they moved you onto the stretcher, every worst case scenario was flashing across your brain; crutches, months away from the game, surgery, each thought worse than the last.

The medical team lifted you into the air, and you tried to muster a smile to your teammates as they patted your arms while you were walked by them. The stretcher came to a halt, though, before you reached the sidelines, and Alexia's face came into view, her brow furrowed with worry. She must have been able to tell what you were thinking, because she pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, and paired it with a "don't spiral; whatever it is, we've got you." The words of your captain did not really do much to make you feel better, but you appreciated the effort.

You were walked back into the facility, a flurry of activity following you. You felt your mind shut down as the medics worked around you, manipulating your ankle and asking questions. The feelings bubbling up inside of you were too much, so you pushed them down, instead focusing on the pain in your ankle. You were whisked off for an x-ray, which would be the real test as to how bad it was.

-----

You lay with your eyes shut on the exam table, the room empty. 2 and a half months. Maybe 3. The words the doctor had spoken were rattling around inside your brain, and you willed yourself to feel nothing, to be strong. You heard the door open, and someone slip in, and you knew who it would be before you opened your eyes; the one person guaranteed to ruin your perfectly crafted mask of stability, and at the same time, the person whose presence you craved more than anything.

A hand came to lightly cup your cheek, and you opened your eyes to see your favorite striker looking down at you, her usual dimples absent from her face, replaced with a frown of concern.

"Hi, hermosa. How are you feeling?" Claudia questioned, voice dripping with care.

"Hurts." Your response came out choked, and you felt a tear slip down your cheek. Claudia carefully wiped it away, still looking into your eyes, as if she could take your pain away if she only knew the extent of it.

"I'm sorry, amor. Let's get you home, yeah?" You nodded, and allowed her to help you sit up. She helped you strap the boot onto your foot, and she chuckled lightly when you glared at the crutches, instead of taking them from her outstretched hands.

"You want me to ask Ingrid if she'll carry you?" Claudia teased, knowing you would rather crawl to the car than ask someone to carry you. You sighed, taking the crutches from her and standing, already hating the feeling of being so off balance. Claudia pressed a light kiss to your lips, before grabbing both of your bags, which you hadn't noticed her come in with. You headed to the car, and you quietly thanked her for grabbing your stuff, appreciating that she knew you wouldn't want to face the team right now.

You moved slowly, the standing position forcing blood to rush into your foot, and you winced in pain at every movement. Claudia patiently kept pace with you, opening the car door and helping you slide in. She put the crutches in the back, and made sure you were comfortable before climbing into the drivers seat. It was a fairly practiced routine; Claudia had spent a lot of time in a boot and on crutches last season, and now the roles were reversed.

As she drove, she reached over, grabbing one of your hands in hers, and brought it to her lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. You smiled weakly at her, and she squeezed your hand, keeping a hold of it in her lap. You settled in for the drive, focusing on taking deep breaths. You stared out the window at the pink-orange sunset, and actively worked to shove every single feeling you had down, locking your emotions into a little box. By the time you arrived home with Claudia, you felt numb, completely shut off from your feelings. You knew she could tell, and you knew she was actively trying to think of ways to bring you out of this shell, get you to be vulnerable.

You'd always struggled with showing your emotions, and allowing yourself to properly feel them. It had taken months before you allowed yourself to admit you liked Claudia, and several more months before you let her see you in any state that wasn't happy. Whenever something bad happened, she was forced to watch you retreat back into yourself, your first instinct to hide away any weakness. She hated it, but she knew you were just trying to protect yourself, and she had promised herself a long time ago to never let you push her away.

-----

It had been two weeks, and Claudia was practically bouncing off the walls in frustration. Two weeks of you resisting her help, of answering all her questions with one word answers. Two weeks since she'd since anything but a blank, straight face on you. She knew you were hurting; just like any player, you hated being injured and being forced to sit out. More than that, though, you really struggled with feeling useless. You couldn't DO anything, your broken ankle putting you on crutches for weeks. It was impossible to get around, to do most tasks without help, and you hated, hated, that Claudia had to take care of you. Of course, she didn't care, but her efforts to convince you of this had failed, and she could tell that you spent every waking moment trying to figure out how to be as little trouble as possible.

Claudia noticed the way you leaned into her every touch, even when you told her you could do something by yourself, and the way your hand would reach out to grab hers almost desperately in your sleep, as if afraid she would disappear . The only time Claudia had seen you consciously act like yourself, though, was when she had a nightmare, waking you up with her squirming. You had woken her up, pulling her into your arms and cradling her gently, wiping away her tears and soothing her back to sleep. The next morning, you had asked her if she was okay, and when she said that she was, you had gone back to acting like an emotionless robot.

She'd talked to some of your older teammates, and they'd stopped by, trying to get you to open up. All of them had failed; Lucy and Mapi with jokes, almost doing a standup routine in your living room, before blindsiding you with questions of how you were feeling, really. Ingrid with her sweet, comforting words, trying to melt your frosty exterior with kindess. Even Alexia and Irene's joint tough love approach hadn't worked. They'd all given up and left, but not before making you promise to reach out to them, day or night, if you needed anything.

Claudia was at a loss- she'd truly never seen you like this before, and she was going crazy worrying about you. You should have known, really, that it would only be a matter of time before she snapped.

-----

You were trying to get up off the couch, and get a snack from the kitchen when the tension between the two of you came to a head.

"What do you need? I can grab it for you." Her voice came from the doorway, having heard your clumsy movements.

"I got it," you replied, just as your crutch caught on the edge of the carpet, almost sending you tumbling forward. You caught yourself just in time, as Claudia lurched across the room to help steady you.

"Bebe, just tell me what you need, I'll grab it," she was almost begging at this point, and she could see you getting annoyed.

"I said I got it, Claudia," your tone was harsh, and Claudia felt all sense of restraint leave her body.

"Well, excuse me for trying to help, it seemed like you just almost face planted onto our carpet."

"Jesus, I don't need you hovering over me all the time, I'm FINE." You were almost shouting now, glaring at Claudia. You knew you were being unreasonable, but suddenly you were filled to the brim with anger and annoyance, and it had to go somewhere. Unfortunately, your sweet girlfriend seemed like the only option.

She shouted back. "Fine? You're fine? Fine is completely shutting down and refusing to talk about what you're going through? Fine is pushing yourself so hard on your physical therapy exercises that they had to tell you to take a break before you did more damage? Fine is treating me like you hate me any time I try to help you? Y/n, you are clearly not fine, and I am losing my mind trying to get you to admit it, it's infuriating."

Your reaction to her words was as if she'd hit you, and she realized her mistake a second too late. Your biggest fear was being a burden to her, and she'd just made it sound like you were exactly that. She took in your appearance, your messy ponytail, baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants, and the dark circles under your eyes. Your expression made her heart hurt, one of fear and hurt. She was still angry, though, and she knew if she didn't stop this fight right here, you would lash out at her, and she would do the same.

"Alright, I need some air. I'm gonna go for a drive, maybe stop by Patri's for a bit, and we can talk when I get back," she turned away from you, grabbing her keys, and walking to the door before pausing, and facing you again. You were standing stock still, supported by your crutches, staring at the ground. "Please stay downstairs, and if you need something or something happens, call me. Please." You nodded, in response, avoiding eye contact, and she left the house, closing the door tightly behind her.

You stood in the same spot for a couple minutes, mind racing through the past couple weeks. You hadn't meant to be so distant and cold; you felt so guilty for needing her help with everything, you didn't want to make her deal with you emotions too. More than that, you didn't want to deal with how upset you were; you worried that if you let yourself feel it, it would swallow you whole.

Claudia was the most important thing to you though; more than football, more than anything. You'd give it all up for her, without a second thought. So, you promised yourself you'd try to do better, try to let her in more.

You still wanted a snack, so you headed into the kitchen. You went to open the fridge, but you'd positioned your crutches in the wrong spot, and the fridge door swung open, knocking one of the crutches out from under you. Off balance, you grabbed for the counter, but missed, your other crutch shooting out from it's spot next to you, and you tipped sideways, landing hard on your boot, before ending up sprawled on your back.

You groaned in pain, pounding your fist on the floor in frustration after a minute. Sitting up, you tried to take stock of your injury- it ached, but not to the extent that you were worried you'd made the break worse. You scooted back against the cabinets, and reached for your crutches, before realizing one of them had snapped during the fall. You hand't even know that was possible. You looked around for anything else to help you get off the cold hardwood floors, and found nothing. The counters were too high, one crutch wasn't enough. You were stuck.

Your foot hurt, you were hungry, you couldn't get up, and you just wanted Claudia. Tears welled up in your eyes again, and you didn't know if it was from pain, frustration, or if everything was finally just catching up to you. Taking a deep breath and forcing yourself to think logically, you tried to decide who to call. You knew Claudia had told you to call her, but you couldn't help but think that she deserved a break, and she'd much rather hang out with Patri than come pick you up off the floor.

You were left to decide between Ingrid and Mapi, and Alexia; you knew any of them would drop everything to come help. Although Alexia was fully capable of helping you, and she lived closer than the other girls, you knew she'd call Claudia, and probably drag you off to a doctor to get your ankle checked again. So, with a shaky hand, and the thought that you were incredibly glad you'd had your phone in your pocket, you dialed Mapi's number.

"Hola nena, what's up?" You noted a hint of concern already present in her voice, and you knew it was because you calling her on the phone was not a normal occurrence. You'd text, or facetime, but never call.

"Um... are you and Ingrid around?" You tried to keep your voice steady, but you don't think it worked.

"Si, we're just at home. Why, what's wrong?"

"I um. Fell in the kitchen. And one of my crutches broke, and I can't get up. And Claudia is out and I don't want to bother her. Could you guys come and help me?" You felt your insides twist in embarrassment ; you hated this, hated it more than anything.

"Shit, of course. Are you okay?" She sounded frantic suddenly, and you hated that you'd worried her.

"Yeah, my ankle hurts a bit from how I landed, but I'm fine."

"Good. We're on our way, just hang tight until we get there, vale?" Mapi sounded reassuring, and you let her words wash over you, trying to relax.

"Si, thank you Mapi." Your voice was thick, and you felt yourself losing your tight grip on your mask of stability. You willed yourself to hold it together for a little longer, just until Claudia got home.

Your friends must have broken several traffic laws because they were at your house within 10 minutes when it normally takes 20. They came bursting through the door, rushing into the kitchen. They came to a stop at the sight of you, taking in your dejected form sitting on the ground. Your crutches lay next to you, one broken, and you looked up at them pathetically, eyes glossy.

"Oh, honey," Ingrid cooed, before walking forward and gathering you into her arms. They'd never really seen you like this before; it was clear you were growing more and more emotional with every passing second. This was emphasized by the way you curled into Ingrid as she carried you to the couch. She set you down, and you buried your face in your hands, trying to take slow, deep breaths, and stave off the breakdown you felt coming.

Ingrid sat next to you, rubbing circles onto your back, as Mapi crouched in front of you, taking off your boot gently, and inspecting your ankle.

"It looks okay. If it feels worse or different tomorrow, you should go in, but I think you're fine for now," she stated confidently .

You wanted to make a joke and ask her where she got her medical license from, but when you opened your mouth to speak, the only thing that came out was a choked sound, before you dissolved into loud, pained sobs. The couple looked alarmed at the strength of your cries, but not really surprised at the appearance of them. Their immediate instinct was to let you cry it out, but it quickly became clear that you were only growing more and more upset, your cries becoming louder, and your breaths falling shorter and faster.

They tried to calm you down, but nothing seemed to work. Ingrid wrapped her arms around you, holding you tightly against her, while Mapi gently stroked her thumb up and down where her hands sat on your knees. They took turns talking to you, trying to guide your breaths, and get you to relax, but none of it seemed to help. You brought your hands to your chest, really hyperventilating now, trying in vain to slow your breathing down. You didn't know what was wrong with you; you were filled with anxiety and anguish and you couldn't, for the life of you, pull yourself together and stop crying.

"Cariño, what can we do," Mapi asked rather desperately.

You wracked your brain for something that would make you feel better, and your mind could only come up with one thing.

"Claudia. Please," you managed to gasp out, and Mapi was whipping her phone out, speaking rapidly to Claudia on the other end. You were only getting more and more panicked, resting your head against the Norwegians chest, trying to focus on her heartbeat. You closed your eyes tightly, only opening them when you felt yourself being pulled out of Ingrid's arms and into another set.

Opening your eyes, you saw Claudia looking down at you, anxiety written clearly across her face. More time must have passed than you thought, and if you hadn't still been so panicked, you would have wondered if you'd passed out. You collapsed against her in relief, and she pulled you to lay against her chest, propping herself up against the arm of the couch. You rested between her legs, ear pressed over her chest, as she wrapped her arms around you, bring one up to tug your ponytail out and lightly run her fingers through your hair.

It took a while, but the sound of her heartbeat, the comforting motions of her hands, and the smell of her laundry detergent and perfume, invading your senses from where your nose pressed against her sweatshirt, all managed to calm you down. Your tears came to a slow stop, save for the occasional sniffle, and your breathing returned to normal. You realized Claudia was talking quietly to you then, and you tried to focus on her words.

"-got you. I'm right here, you're gonna be okay. I love you. So much. You're gonna be just fine." Her voice was soothing, and you felt the last of the tension leave your body. You were content to just lay there, surrounded by Claudia, but after a couple more minutes, she nudged you and sat up, keeping both of her hands on you, not willing to let you go.

"How are you feeling, amor? That was pretty intense." She spoke quietly, and you appreciated it.

Clearing your throat, you responded, allowing yourself to be honest for the first time in a while. There was no reason to pretend to be fine anymore- it was abundantly clear that you weren't.

"Tired. Better, I think though? Especially now that you're here." Your response was shaky, and she leaned in closer to you, pressing her side up against yours. It was only then that you noticed that Ingrid and Mapi were gone. You made a mental note to thank them, profusely, later.

"Good. I'm glad you feel better," she paused. "I'm sorry I yelled earlier. It's just really hard for me to see you like this, completely shut off from everything."

"I know, I'm sorry I yelled in the first place. I haven't been handling this very well," she scoffed at that, and you managed a smile. "I know that how I've been handling it isn't healthy, and I'm gonna try to do better." You made eye contact with her as you spoke, and you could tell she was hopeful that you were being genuine.

"I love you. You aren't ever a bother, or a burden. Taking care of you is something I am happy to do, always." She sounded so earnest, so eager for you to believe her, that you didn't really have any other choice. "I know it's really hard for you to accept help, but I'm not going anywhere, so you're gonna have to get used to it." You smiled then, a real smile, pulled her into a hug.

"Thank you, I love you. Te quiero mucho." She pressed several kisses to the side of your head in response before pulling back.

"Nap?" She asked, taking in the way your eyelids drooped, and the way you sagged against her.

"Si, por favor," you responded, and without another word, she pulled you back into her arms, nestled against her chest. She tugged the blanket folded over the back of the couch down on top of the both of you, and you snuggled into her, letting out a sigh of contentment. You were already falling asleep, and Claudia was finally relaxed, truly believing that you were going to be better about letting her in.

[sir-fenris]

Whumpcember24 - Day 3

Begging

(Drabbles' masterlist)

Content: experiment whumpee, resigned whumpee, intimate/sadistic whumper, begging, hand-feeding, implied torture, leg injury, threat of mutilation, starvation.

The first time Whumpee was thrown in the dungeon cell, they thought pain would be the worst, consistent problem. And well... it was, indeed, consistent and distressing.

But somehow boredom was worse.

Because boredom led to overthinking.

Could they have done something to stop the last session's pain sooner? When will be the next one? Will they be allowed water and food? How many days has passed? Is this consistent pain in the leg normal after being stabbed? Is the lethargy and apathy because of tiredness, or were they going insane?

And slowly, there was so much nothing going on beyond the pain, that their mind had to come up with new questions to fill their "free" time.

Like; how many steps there were between the bars and the wall? What's the highest number they can count to before a new session? How long can they keep their eyes open? How much can they move before jostling an injury too badly?

Any question and thought until the cell door opens.

When torture starts, they hope for it to end.

When torture ends, they hope for it to begin again just to take them out of this endless overthinking.

... And to give them a chance to eat. Because that only happened when Whumper was in a good mood and wanted to play, instead of study torture methods.

"Look who's up early today!" Speaking of the devil...

Whumpee raises their eyes tiredly, barely seeing Whumper clearly anymore, their eyesight is getting worse each day. They don't say anything, they don't need to.

"I was thinking of trying out glossectomy today, but I'm reconsidering..." Whumper muses, walking in the cell with a black bottle in hands.

Whumpee hated when Whumper used their weird-ass words. It meant usually some type of surgery or medical thing, by Whumpee's experience, and it always had the immense potential to be an excruciating experience.

At their tiredly confused expression, Whumper grins gleefully and explains, after crouching down. "Tongue removal, little bird."

Their blood goes cold. Whumper has never chopped off a part of their body. No matter how far they went, Whumpee knew Whumper would at least keep them whole by the end of it, why must it change now-

With a chilling chuckle, Whumper opens the black bottle, and the smell of fruit cuts off Whumpee's thinking.

"Now, now, don't lose yourself just yet. I told you, I'm reconsidering," Whumpee says. "I do love you singing for me, little bird... So I'll give you a chance to prove that I'm better off leaving your tongue where it is. And, if you're good enough, you can have a tasty smoothie, hm?"

The pause sent Whumpee in a frenzy to find out what was the right thing to say, which clues they had in hands to guess what Whumper wanted to hear.

'I do love you singing for me...'

"Please..." Whumpee whispers, lowering their eyes to the ground when Whumper grin grows. "Can I please eat?"

A hooked finger presses their chin upwards, forcing them to meet Whumper's gaze. "You can do better, little bird. Let me help."

Pain burns through their body as Whumper uses their other hand's nails to dig into Whumpee's leg injury. They try to curl into themselves with a stifled wail, but Whumper's hooked fingers turns into a whole-hand grip on their jaw, keeping Whumpee's gaze on Whumper's eyes only.

"P-Ple- Ah! Please, please, c-can I eat?" Tears burn their eyes when Whumper just digs their nails further, still with that vile grin. "Please, I'm begging you, I'm so hungry, please let me eat, please, please-"

Their words are interrupted by a choked gasp as Whumper retrieves both their hands to clap. "There we go, that's better."

Whumpee breaths shakily, closing their eyes to urge the pained tears away.

"Your singing is too pretty for me to cut off your tongue, little bird. Aren't you glad I've changed my mind?" Whumper asks cheerfully, putting a straw on the smoothie bottle.

"... Yes, thank you," Whumpee whispers. At least today's game was easy and fast. It's the easiest food they got in a long while.

"Good song bird. Now, say 'ah' for me."

Whumpee's eyebrows twitched at the straw being tapped against their lips, because their hands were fine, they didn't need nor want Whumper to feed them.

But this was the easiest food they got in a long while. They can't lose the opportunity of easy, tasty nutrition because of pride.

And when the delicious, cold and fresh smoothie reaches their kept tongue, Whumpee forgot why they had even hesitated.

There is no space for pride in survival.

-

(Kinda late, but stills counts as day 3, right? Shhh, for me, it does.)

-